


Poison

by bipalium



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Blood and Injury, Cuckolding, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bipalium/pseuds/bipalium
Summary: It's Medic's job to take care of his commander.





	Poison

**Author's Note:**

> For VKaz Week 2017, Day 7: All in a day's work

The door bangs open and you turn at the rustling sound. Boss pushes Miller inside, his arm winded around his shoulders for support. You salute and hurry to help before Boss drops him on the cot. There’s dirt and sand in his beard, eye sharp and jaw clenched. Miller pants, his hand clutched at his chest. His boot is caked with blood, some fresh stains glisten in sterile light.  

Boss orders to take care of him in a raspy voice. That is his style of concern.

You rummage through the shelves as you hear him leave with a loud door slam. Miller groans behind your back as you wash your hands and slap on rubber gloves. You ready antiseptic and bandages, asking him how much time has passed.

“Maybe a couple hours,” Miller utters through clenched teeth.

Vaccination needed, then. You tell him to remove his boot, sit on the edge of the cot. His mouth twists in pain as he kicks it off, shuffling and attempting to sit up. You grab his shoulder to steady him. His shirt is covered in mud, rolling up a sleeve might not be enough.

“Take it off,” you tell him. Miller nods, shimmying it off. His tank top has darkened with sweat. He fixes the sunglasses on his mildly bleeding nose. Sensitive eyes can’t take light, natural or artificial.

He pumps his fist after you pat his skin with spirited gauze. Miller wrinkles his nose as the needle pierces his vein. You bend his arm in an elbow, even through the layer of rubber you feel how flushed his skin is. Perhaps it wasn’t just ‘a couple hours’.

You order him to lie down, he snorts and says something about being pampered – an unbearable flirt even in the med bay. Sometimes you find a withered flower on your desk and a note in a well-curved handwriting. _For our best man! Keep it up ####._

You carefully remove his bloody sock. The wound is deep, stabbed, not an accident but a man-made one. There’s soil and tiniest gravel stuck in the dark ragged flesh. You clean it, holding his heel down. He flinches and laughs.

“Fuck, it tickles,” he says with a heavy breath. You decide not to comment on that. Many times you’ve seen him beaten, severely more often than not. Even now his chest, arms, his neck are covered with fresh bruises.

“You know, you could–” you bite off the lecture hovering on your tongue. Miller knows what you want to say. He smirks. It doesn’t matter if you say it or not, he’s just playing. It’s all a game for him, he won’t be out of Boss’ hair for it.

You finish washing his wound, it’s rather deep so you apply more hydrogen peroxide to stop the bleeding before bandaging it. Miller’s foot arches, his leg trembles. He doesn’t hold up his arm anymore, gripping onto the bed railing with both hands. His biceps flex and bulge. Sparse hair on his armpits glimmers with gold. He bites his lip.

You secure the bandages, tying a tight enough but not pressure-force knot.

“You’ll be as good as new by tomorrow morning.” You can’t stop staring at Miller’s chest, the curve of his body. He catches your gaze, grins, and in a brisk motion draws up, rolling his top over his head. It falls to the floor. You see his teeth glistening wetly.

“Thanks, doc,” he says in a hushed tone, he’s close. Like all those times in front of a campfire, when he reeks alcohol, charming and sultry, talking jokes and boasting about the girls scored with, leans to your face an inch away. His hand is on your collar. You fidget and advice him to rest.

“Oh, c’mon.” Miller flashes a devilish grin. Bastard. You love it.

He sits up on his knees, forgetting his injured foot. You attempt to stand up and go away, only in your head. His eyes are piercing.

Miller’s kisses are fierce and deep, devouring. His tongue tastes like blood. Arms clenching your neck, his body hotly pressing into yours. There’s that raw energy in every motion, like an indomitable ocean.

This is wrong.

You draw back, his hands pull you back in. Another kiss, on your jaw, fingers creeping under the rim of your turtleneck. Miller’s breaths burn on your skin.

All those times when he looks at you, knowing well what’s on your mind. That purse of his mouth. Loitering around the ward for nothing. Bringing you an apple or a peach. A lovely white-teeth smile.

Miller lavishes you like he can never be sated. You hold his rocking hips, lenient and strong in your hands. No, this is wrong.

You attempt to say that Boss is going to kill the both of you but stutter on a breath when he lowers his head to your crotch, his mouth on your half-hard cock before you know it. His play is no joke, straight up to business without forewarnings. And god he’s _good_ at it.

The wet sounds and musk and sweat and spiritus scents make your head light. Miller’s hands fondle you, your thighs, your lower abdomen. You hold your arms in the air before dipping your fingers into his lustrous hair. So soft to the touch, and his lips and tongue are firm. _No._

You tap his chin with a trail of saliva sticking to it and he grins at you. Glasses still on, of course.

“Commander,” you utter in an alien, hazy voice.

“I have a name, ####.”

You exhale from your nostrils. Сoliform bacterium, cestodes, blood poisoning after unsanitary amputation. Fly larvae in abscessed wounds. Only all the mental images don’t help with how much you want him.

Miller’s back is rubbing into the mattress, throat tight with hitching breaths, skin slapping against skin. It’s raw. Dirty. Guilt glares somewhere from the corner of your mind, and you sink your tongue deeper into his mouth to ditch it away. You can’t stop, you pace up, but he’s faster, younger; his whole body is a hot streaming mess under you. So much force in his arms. He could easily crush you with his legs if he wanted, pin you down, but you’re the one committing the sin. He smirks against your lips. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Your cock is so chafed it aches, it’s uncomfortable, too dry. You can’t care less, thrusting faster, panting like you haven’t had sex in ages. Your toes go numb. Miller murmurs your name into your ear, biting your earlobe; _fuck me_ he says, _fuck me, I know how much you want me_. His voice makes you almost painfully hard. You grope his pecs and suck on the crook of his neck, grinding, slamming; Miller rides beneath you like his life depends on it, his thick cock rubbing against your stomach.

Layers of sweat between you soak the remnants of your clothes, it’s slippery; you almost lose the pace drawing your cock in and out at full length. The way he clutches around you is overwhelming, so brute, so sweet. His hands glide over your shoulder blades to your neck, gripping, weaving in your short hair, nails scratching your scalp. It’s intoxicating.

Fifteen minutes later you both sit smoking. You don’t usually allow your patients that, not even Big Boss. But you’re too tired to care.

You turn off the lights and hand Miller his clothes; he snatches them, removes his glasses. He’s cute without them.

You exit the ward and the next morning you wait till Miller wakes up and leaves.

 

 

 

You look at your reflection in the mirror, touch the tip of the shrapnel. It’s grown bigger. Your face is muddy, blood never comes off no matter how many times you wash it. You see yourself touching your skin but the feeling is not there. It’s not _yours_.

Kaz stirs behind you, his disheveled head pops up in the mirror. He squints and grabs his glasses, red light gleaming on the lenses.

_He's the two of us together_ , you rewind in your head and crack a sinister smile.  

 


End file.
